


Five Times John And Sherlock Almost Met (And One Time They Did)

by Simply_Isnt_On



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Gen, will add tags as story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

John Watson was thirteen when he broke his arm. It was highly anticlimactic. He was riding his bike home from school, when he ran over a stick and veered into a bush. The first thing he knew after that was searing hot pain in his arm and the roiling of his stomach as it tried to bring his lunch up for an encore. Once he’d gotten control of himself, he’d yanked his bike from the bush with his right hand and headed for home, his arm clutched awkwardly against his side. He put his bike in the back of the house and went inside. It’d be at least an hour before everyone else was home, so he swabbed some alcohol on his scratches, took some paracetamol, and settled down to resolutely not think about it.

Five minutes later, he decided that was stupid, and rang his mum at work, who rushed home in a frenzy. She fretted over him, then rushed him to A&E, where they set the bone and gave him a shot of morphine to combat the pain and swelling. Soon he was comfortably woozy, watching as they splinted the bone and applied the cast. He listened with interest as they explained to his mother that what he had was called a greenstick fracture, and not uncommon in children. When that was done, his mother left to sign some paper work, and he simply sat on the paper-covered bed and stared at a wall.

That is, till raised voices coming from the corridor drew his attention. John stood and wandered over to the doorway in time to see several adults and a pair of children rush in, one crying and the other, raven-haired and sulking, glaring sullenly at anyone who dared look his way. John figured the two to be around seven years old, give or take a few months.

John raised an eyebrow at the strange development and watched them manhandle the crying child into the nearest exam room and shut the door. It was only when one of the others knelt before the dark-haired one that John realized that he wasn't an adult, but a surprisingly mature-looking teenager. The elder murmured something to the younger in French, who then retorted in guttural, lisping German and stomped away down the hall.

John suppressed a giggle and went back into his own exam room to wait for his mother.


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting an hour pre-Friday, because I'm not going to be in tomorrow (probably). Enjoy!

There was nothing to do. School was over for the summer and Father was out of town, meaning Mummy was somewhere on the far end of the house and Mycroft was in the garden. And Sherlock was _bored_. He flopped down on his bed, paced, assaulted his violin (and the family's ears), and smashed several beakers before finally grabbing his coat and stomping out of the house in hopes of locating a distraction.

He considered going down to the park and observing people, but he tended to mutter his observations to himself, and people were inclined to hit him when they heard him exposing their affairs. So he shook his head and headed for the local uni.

One of the lab professors had a mistress, and he let Sherlock use the labs for his experiments on the understanding that he keep his observations to himself. Sherlock just hoped his wife was jealous enough to be used as blackmail even after he'd broken it off with the other woman (receipt for cheap local flower shop on the desk, box of chocolates in the corner- his wife was trying to lose weight and was snappy about things like that, couldn't be for her.)

However, he figured it was better to get in as many experiments as possible, just in case. Pushing his hands into his pockets, Sherlock assumed a swaggering slouch to match the uni students milling about in the halls. He let himself into the lab - without a key - and shoved a chair under the door handle before setting to work, carefully focusing his microscope on a slide which lacked a label.

The teen didn’t look up until the door handle began to jiggle - someone was trying to get in. Sherlock checked his watched, decided it was probably the chemistry professor - free period - and slipped out the window, dangling from his fingers for a moment before dropping two stories to land in the bushes. He set off at a trot, pulling out the handful of petri dishes he'd nicked with a grin. Sherlock was so preoccupied, in fact, that he walked straight into a shorter man who appeared to be juggling several heavy tomes.

***

John swore as his books hit the ground, and feet pounded against the pavement as the person who'd run into him took off. "Wanker!" he shouted angrily, kneeling to pick up his books. He could at least have stayed to help, John thought sullenly. He had enough to think about without people ruining his books.


	3. THREE

John was well and truly sloshed. He was entitled, he figured, after all the finals and studying he'd done to pass them. So what if he was currently standing on a table in nothing but his pants, giving a stirring rendition of Charlie Mopps? The bar was mostly guys from his former rugby team anyway, and they'd all seen him in much less than that.

Nevertheless, the table proved too much for him, and before too long he was stumbling off of it into the arms of one of his mates. "Easy there, John," Rickey chuckled, shoving him onto a booth. John flopped back against the cushion, hand going to his head to stop the suddenly spinning room.

He didn't notice the room fading until the darkness set in, and by then, it didn't matter anymore.

***

On the other hand, John soon learned, when he woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a roiling stomach, it probably did matter after all. Dressing hurriedly, he stumbled out the door of his dorm in search of the nearest convenience store.

When, after several wrong turns and much stumbling, he finally located a store, he managed to find a bottle of paracetamol that he would be able to pay for with the change lining his pocket lint. As he made his way to the front of the store, he managed to stumble into one of the other patrons, a dark-haired young man who was examining what appeared to be a row of women's hair-care products, and only the other man’s quick reflexes kept John from making an immediate acquaintance with the floor.

Muttering an embarrassed apology, John pushed away from him and stumbled over to the cashier to pay, not really caring that all four other people in the store could probably tell that he was hungover. Not like it really mattered, he'd be leaving soon anyways. Home for the summer, and then on to try and find a job as a doctor somewhere.

Yes, things were looking up.


	4. FOUR

An orderly poked her head into the room just as John finished bandaging the wrist of a lanky teenage. "Try not to fall out of any more trees, yeah?" he suggested with a grin. He was on his residency, which meant he got passed around from department to department.

Tonight's was the ER- and since they were short a few staff members, he'd assumed the mantle of honorary doctor for the night - not that John minded. He got more experience like this, anyway.

Once the boy had gone back to his waiting father, John turned to the orderly who waited for him. "Anyone next?" he asked, washing his hands.

She glanced down at the file she held. "Yes, actually, there's a young man here for an OD. Cocaine, I believe." She left, and John sighed. The junkies were always hard - beyond simply stabilizing them, there was little doctors could actually do to help them.

Just then, there came frantic shouting from the waiting room, and a gurney was quickly wheeled out, to appear a moment later pushed at a run towards the operating theatre. There was blood everywhere, and John could see a long black-clad body amidst it all before the gurney rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

When John went to gather his OD patient, he learned that apparently, while the young man waited, he'd gotten into an argument with another man there, which had ended when the other man pulled a knife on him, leaving John to wonder whether blood loss or blood poisoning would kill him first.

The next day, John was transferred to the pædiatrics wing of the hospital, and all thoughts of the knife-fight-junkie disappeared from his mind.


	5. FIVE

It was raining. Of all the things that could happen today to make everything worse, it had to be raining. John had forgotten his umbrella, and his shoulder and leg ached with the damp.

He'd been to his physical therapist that morning, and then to the pensioner's office to pick up his cheque, and between the stress of trying to force his damaged muscle to work again, and the indignity of relying on a pension, he wasn't sure he could face another hour that taking the tube would cost him.

Finally, fed up, he raised his arm at a passing cab. The car moved to the kerb, and just it seemed to John that his day would get a bit better, maybe, he was shoved aside.

A man in a long black coat yanked open the door of the cab he'd just hailed and clambered inside. "Get the next one," he shouted as he slammed the door in John's face.

John stared after him, face blank, hand gripping tightly at his cane. As he watched the cab drive away, he clenched his jaw and headed down to the end of the block for the tube. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.


	6. PLUS ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! I'm so sorry I left you guys hanging with that last chapter, I've had a busy couple of weeks, what with finals and then getting sick. Anyways, I'm posting this as an early Christmas present for you all. Hope you have happy holidays, and enjoy this last chapter. :)

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John froze. How could he know that? But he had asked, and Mike Stamford was sitting there grinning like a Chesire.

"I’m sorry?" he stammered, searching desperately for a suitable reason for this man to know that about him. He'd taken off his dog tags, he dressed like a civilian and managed not to walk like a commanding officer. So how could he know?

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man barely looked up, adjusting the microscope before him, and John thanked the stars that he could be a patient man.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"

As the back and forth continued, John began to feel a curious case of déjà vu, But he knew he'd never met this man before; he'd certainly remember him now, as he rattled off his life story as if John had written it out for him.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." Watching him go, John barely heard Mike's comment. This man was interesting; John already knew he would be at Baker Street the next evening at seven o'clock.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to update every Friday, so more to come soon. :D


End file.
